


Mister Right

by HostisHumaniGeneris



Category: Prototype (Video Games)
Genre: Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Mind Games, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Transformation, Violent Sex, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-04 14:16:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18345356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HostisHumaniGeneris/pseuds/HostisHumaniGeneris
Summary: When the garden flowers, Baby are dead,yes and your mind, your mind is so full of redDon't you want somebody to love, don't you need somebody to love, wouldn't you love somebody to love, you better find somebody to love





	Mister Right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Silex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silex/gifts).



She approached, one of the lesser ones following her.  The darkness didn’t matter, she could feel her way through the pulsing tunnel, and even if she couldn’t, the walk had been committed by memory.  The lesser stumbled on awkward, misshapen legs.  So pitiable.  She slowed her pace, though it pained her to do so.

Mister Right was waiting for her, after all.

“ _You can’t keep waiting around for Mister Right.”_

But she had… she had him long, long ago, and they were special and wonderful together and made something special and wonderful.  Then she lost him.  And she waited, and waited.  And although she had other opportunities, other things to do, when she finally had her chance, she found a new Mister Right.

She knew this one was Mister Right the first time she laid eyes on him.  But he proved it again when she found him fighting the Other.  He had to know she would notice, the fight was wonderful.  The Other was stronger than her children, stronger than anything on the island.  And Mister Right had forced the Other to flee, hurt it worse than he’d been hurt before.

So she knew that Mister Right was perfect for her.

He had played hard to get of course.  Those burns he’d inflicted, those blows he had landed, were worth it.  She’d gotten angry with him, but that was no problem—the blood that seeped from the wounds she’d opened did nothing but confirm it all.  He was the Right One.

He fought her then, still did.  That was perfect, how much he struggled, how strong he was, just proved everything she knew about him all the more.  But she was wearing him down.  She broke him and wrapped him tight and set about making him all better.  Making him more perfect.  Her love was worth the pursuit, worth everything that she did to get him.

_“Lizzy, the boys are supposed to chase the girls, not the other way around.”_

She blinked.  _He_ was gone now.  Had been for a long, long time.  But she had so much to share, so much.  And her new love was just the right one.  Strong and brave, he was going to be even moreso.  She would make him greater than he was, and he was going to make great things with her.  Their future was bright.

Maybe she was getting ahead of herself…

Her love thrashed within the nest when she came close.  He thrashed a lot, she could feel it even when she wasn’t near.  He thrashed and kicked and tired himself out and rested and thrashed and kicked.  And he was thrashing harder than ever.  She could feel it, roiling and gnashing above the disgust and confusion that hadn’t quite been buried away. 

Her love was hungry.

And that’s why the lesser one had followed.  It stumbled around her, coming to her love, rested against him.  Teeth found skin, and bone cracked.  Undaunted, it tried to climb, poorly, making it easier for Mister Right to bite again, and again.   It hollowed and died, and stubbornly clung on lifelessly. 

It was not nearly enough, or should not have been.  But she felt it, gnawing hunger abated and Mister Right felt bad again.  That sickness, she could _taste_ it as she sauntered over, looking up at him.  He was a sight now,

Fingers brushed muscle and bone, over scraps of cloth that clung to damp skin in the nest.  He growled in annoyance, tried to speech when a ribbon of meat looped under his jaw.  She’d been so hopeful, he was starting to come around, starting to come around.  All her waiting had paid off.  Her hand drifted down his chest and abdomen, towards an unresponsive mass of tissue.

When was he going to be ready?

_“Maybe he’s just not into you, Liz?”_

She’d been patient too long.  She lost it.  She rent and tore and bit; he tried to thrash out and bite her, but she wasn’t marching into his jaws.  She planted a palm on his lower jaw and pushed his muzzle away as he thrashed and squirmed and tried to get at her and failed.  Fingers tore through skin and slid underneath bone, towards something pulsing in his chest.

No.

She had been patient.  Too long.  Too long to let a flash of anger take it all away. That flash of anger was preposterous—of course he was into her.  If not now, then soon enough.  She was in him, fixing everything broken and making things right. 

She looked at him, already starting to heal.  A gift from her, of course.  He was strong, she had made him stronger.  They would make great things together.  She just needed to wait.  It was close.  He was almost ready.  Almost. 

* * *

_He was Robert Cross._

_Captain Robert Cross._

_Captain Robert Cross of Blackwatch._

_He kept it up, trying to keep everything important in his head.  It was fuzzy, things were so wrong now.  He had to keep thing clear in his head.  Who he was, what he had to do.  Because he was forgetting things, jumbled ideas in his head._

_The heat of the sun far away, under a sky.  He couldn’t remember the colors.  The world was just light and dark to various degrees, hot and cold._

_The feel of recoil from an M4 faded, smell of gunpowder did to, unless it matched the smells of the hive.  Of walkers and hunters and Her.  He wondered when She would come back.  He forced himself to focus on an image of something lumpy and familiar taking a full magazine from an M4, even if he could only remember the Gore._

_He had to focus on the important things.  Where did he come from?  Not important.  Why was he here?  To kill things like Her._

_Who was She?_

_Everything._

_No, he had to concentrate.  She was Elizabeth MOTHER Her Elizabeth Hope Greene.  Elizabeth.  Greene._

_He was Robert Cross._

_He needed to focus on those things.  She was Greene.  He was Cross.  Green was Infected.  Cross was Blackwatch.  Blackwatch killed the infection._

_Cross was Infected._

_There’d be time for that later._

_She came first.  MOTHER came first._

_He caught her scent coming.  He could feel the interest, pent-up **want**.  She was disgusting, horrible.  There was nothing about her that he **wanted**.  Why did he remind himself that?  He couldn’t remember.  Her footsteps against the meat, the smells of the hive, little sounds he couldn’t remember never hearing before all told him her intent._

_He needed to kill her._

_Why?_

_Because he needed to._

_There were other needs, though.  Many other needs._

_He could smell her interest, and the touch she planted on his abdomen told him so much more.  So many great things were in store._

_No, if Greene was involved, there was only horror._

_Why?_

_He couldn’t remember._

_Her hand drifted down, dozens of messages communicated by those fingertips finding ridges in chitin, sensitive spots among the places that had no feeling.  She knew the exact path to trace.  He could feel that things were spiking in her, that something was piquing her interest._

_Because he was interested too._

_Her fingertips found something that wasn’t unfeeling at all, and the rush along their contact was amazing._

_He was…_

_He was hers._

_She was everything._

* * *

When Mister Right finally came around, she was surprised.  They were finally, finally ready.  They could be together.  He had been so strong and stubborn and she had given him so much to make him better, make him perfectly right for her, what she wanted out of him.

There was no more waiting.  She could feel the whirlwind of emotions in his head, how she had been winning out against his confusion and fear.  She brought no gifts but herself when she approached this time, able to see, smell, _feel_ his interest, which only increased hers.  She climbed on him, grasping at his collarbone to steady herself.  Below her, _he_ moved, the mass between his legs having grown substantially.  Flickering memories of previous times like this, with previous Mister Rights, did not prepare her for _this_.  For the mass and the curves and the ridges.  He tested the bonds a little, and how much he wanted to pin her down and drive into her set her on fire from her chest belly outwards.

Meat held her as she helped him line up.  Bound them when the tip of his cock reached her slit.  Coiled around her hips and pulled them together hard enough for her to scream.  It wasn’t comfortable for her, despite her interest.  While he let out a low rumble, she pushed off from him, only to be pulled together again.  He had become so much more under her care, in every way.  It was the best sort of pain.  And pain was nothing.  She had borne his rejections.  She had borne time itself waiting for an opportunity like this, the right man.  She had waited so long after so much was stolen from her.  All of that time was unbearable, yet she bore it placidly.  Pain was acceptable.

Because they were going to make great things together.

Mister Right rocked in his bindings, pushing in as she pulled closer to him.  Mister Right was massive and strong and perfect and this was a perfect moment.  She waited an eternity for this moment, and while she was picking up speed, they were still going slow due to her limits, not his.  Memories of pleasure weren't quite true, Mister Right was too large and too strong for that.  It  _hurt_ to keep going.

But they were together, and that was what mattered.

* * *

_It was a moment of clarity.  What triggered it?  He didn’t know.  But he remembered._

_He remembered trying to get out to no avail for way too long.  He remembered having no clue how long it had been since he’d blacked out, or how long he had writhed and tried to tear his way free in the darkness, only that it felt like an eternity.  Things skittered in the blackness, and he tried not to think about what they were.  The air reeked and was humid and hot—like that op in the Everglades turned up a few notches.  He tried not to think about that job, wouldn’t get him out of here._

_He tried not to think about standard patterns.  The inevitable fevers and headaches, which would lead to delirium and cognitive defects.  Malformations, loss of identity, eventual death.  None of that would get him out of the situation yet, and he still had work to do.  He tagged Mercer with the parasite, had to confirm the kill._

_He stopped thrashing for a moment when she sauntered up to him, slight sway of her hips.  She was standing so close, exhaling into the air he was breathing, he could feel the entire hive pulse slightly with the in-out of her breath.  He tried not to think about how he saw her clearly, underground, with so little light.  She looked at him curiously, and he struggled.  Everything below his knees was encased in shifting, pulsing meat, and his arms were held out at his sides.  There was no give, and it just tightened the grip she had on him.  She continued to look up at him.  MOTHER._

_“What are you looking at?”_

_He didn’t expect a response.  She was a burned-out husk.  There was nothing to negotiate with.  There was no point in talking to her—it, he tried to remind himself to stop anthromorphizing the ambulatory medical curiosities.  There was nothing to say to her or for her to say.  So when she opened her mouth, and he cut her off._

_“Cross, Robert.  Captain, United States Army.  Seven-Four-Nine-Five-Eight-One-Four-Nine-Oh-Two.”_

_But he kept it up.  Name, rank, serial number.  It was futile and stupid; on the occasions Blackwatch operated on foreign soil, nobody held any illusions that the Geneva Conventions applied to them in the even of capture by local forces.  Here?  Forget the laws of war, the laws of nature didn’t apply._

_Over and over again, he repeated the information, growing hoarse, gasping in humid, foul air.  Sweat plastered his uniform to him as he kept up his litany.  Somewhere along the line he started adding profanities to his litany._

_She shut him up by clambering atop him and pressing her lips against his.  He screamed against the mouth, sickly-bitter taste rising up his throat while her tongue tasted even worse against him.  He bit down, only for a split second, stopping when blood welled up and burned its way in his mouth._

_He let go and dropped to the meaty floor, a black-red trickle running down from the corner of her mouth, her teeth stained dark as she grinned.  He could feel his heart pounding, and he told himself to calm down, he had to be infected already, it wasn’t like there had been any going back the moment she had dragged him down here._

_For her part, Greene continued to study him for a moment, before reaching up to her neck.  Confusion at what the fuck she was doing was replaced by disgust when she tugged at the collar of the containment suit that Gentek had her in.  The thick polymer of the suit tore as she tugged.  Strips of it fell to the floor as she pulled the suit off, blood spurting as mediports integrated in the suit came out with the material.  She didn’t bother removing the sleeves or legs, only tearing a path from her neck to her crotch, exposing her breasts, stomach, and vagina._

_She was back on her feet, up against him, tearing at his uniform; pants, cup, underwear._

_She actually had the gall to look disappointed he was soft._

_Then she laid d own, and looked up at him, head quirked in a parody of seductiveness._

_It was so ridiculous he burst out laughing._

_She was fucking horrifying.  Her body was a mess of biopsy scars and open sores.  She looked diseased, she was a disease._

_He’d never want her._

_The pop of one of his shoulders dislocating as the meat encasing the arm pulled suddenly turned the laugh into a scream, she muffled with a mouthful of her blood._

_As she walked away, while he hung limp in the squirming mass, he spat out blood and started to mutter._

_“When we hunt, we kill…”_

* * *

Something was wrong.

He started thrashing in his bonds again, growls deepening.  She could feel it bubble to the surface, something she though she had drowned out of him.  The meat tightened around him and he thrashed some more.  With a rush of ichor, he tore one of his paws free, coiling it around her middle.  She kicked and thrashed as he pulled her off him and _squeezed._ The pain was only slightly worse than him separating the two of them.  The loss of connection.  They were not done. 

She was knocked senseless as he threw her down hard.  Something _cracked_ as she bounced, the thin layer of meat covering rock and metal was not nearly enough to cushion her.  She hit the ground and rolled, and by the time she managed to raise herself to her feet, he had gotten his other arm free, and his legs.  Claws tore into the mat of meat on the floor, joints bending and muscles tensing as he dropped to all fours, then forced himself to stand.

Even then, she thought he was beautiful.

More things cracked as he slammed into her, pinning her down against the ground.  The contact, re-established showed nothing of what she wanted to see, although the intent behind his actions was plenty clear.  Teeth flew when he tried to bite her and she lashed out, knocking his head to the side.  She was underneath him, kicking and thrashing as he forced her open.  Perhaps not all of him wanted the same things?  She pushed against him in desperation, the pain  _that_ contact caused of such a minute concern compared to everything else he was trying to do to her.

They were not done yet, not nearly.

“K-killyoooooouu…” Mister Right growled, it turning into a whine when she found something soft where his armor plates met, and tore into it.  They were both screaming and tearing into one another.  The nest shook at their spat, and she could feel her brood rushing in.  

He was trying to kill her.  As things he had broken ground against each other, she realized he was doing a good job of it.  If he could, then that meant she had done a good job making Mister Right better than before. 

But he wasn’t going to _do_ things right.

She could tell.  She thought she could maybe change him, but what made him so interesting, how strong and hard-headed he was—that meant there were only so many things she could change.  Mister Right had something she needed, but he was not going to give it to her easily.  That was fine.  He wanted her dead, she wanted him.  Fending him off while forcing him in was impossible for the long-term, but there was not much choice.  

She  _painfully_ hooked a leg around him, dragging herself against him by handholds she found or forced in his armor.  He let out a disgusted huffing when he was inside her again, trying to tear her off and apart.  Jaws snapped, narrowly missing her.  She held on tight and kept at it.  Pain was nothing.

They were going to make great things together.

Relief came when the nest came alive with dozens of shrieks and wails of all manner of things, distracting him, preventing him from dong everything he wanted and giving her an opportunity to move her battered self against him, blood mixing in so many wounds; not just hers and Mister Rights, but those of so many things helping her.  

_“Love hurts”_

That it did.

* * *

_“You can’t be here.” The scientist in a racal suit said, holding up his hand.  Several others turned towards the group, faces obscured by the tinted faceplates.  The one standing in their way turned to his colleagues and added.  “Uh… someone get security on the line…”_

_“No need…” McMullen said, quickly stepping out from behind Randall and interspersing himself.  “…their appearance here is on my authority.”_

_The man in the suit was such a stickler for protocol he was willing to disagree with his boss.  Ballsy.  “Director McMullen, you and them should be in protec…”_

_“Assuming you’re taking the appropriate precautions, the observation area is safe.” McMullen said, authoritatively.  “You are taking every precaution, right?”_

_“Uh, yes sir.” The stickler whined._

_Cross was stone-faced, but amused nonetheless.  This hadn’t been a scheduled tour of the facility, and Gentek’s Director had maybe five minutes to prepare.  He was doing a pretty decent job hiding the fact that everyone in front of them was there on the Old Man’s authority, not the other way around.  One word from the General, and Cross and the rest of the squad would be allowed to clean house.  Of course, this was a ‘social call’.  Violence wasn’t needed._

_The General liked to make these ‘social calls’ unannounced.  Let McMullen know that he was on Blackwatch’s beck and call, not the other way around.  The Director managed to say, without saying, that the General and his entourage certainly had the right to view the specimen._

_As the men in Racal Suits excused themselves, Randall approached the window, and Cross followed.  On the opposite side of the thick Plexiglass, she sat.  Harmless as a fly.  Not she, ‘it’.  ‘Her’.  ‘It’.  There was nothing left of ‘her’.  ‘It’ had a parody of a serene, placid expression on her face, with the inside of her head as blank as the look in her eyes.  Randall stepped aside to talk to McMullen while Cross continued to study her—from a practical standpoint she was a dangerous asset.  She was also fascinating._

_Redheaded teenager, or something that had been that decades ago.  MOTHER was taken directly from Hope.  She sat on the floor of the enclosure, still as a statue.  Tubes ran down from some machine to her back, draining something from her, or pumping something into her.  Cross leaned close to the glass._

_As Randall and McMullen continued to talk, about things that both were very vehement today but would be of no consequence as time went on, Cross felt his hair stand on end.  There was something, a nearly imperceptible movement that drew his attention.  Could’ve been a random muscle twitch.  Catatonia did not preclude all movement._

_Still he couldn’t shake his unease.  It looked at him._

_At least he thought so, if she saw anything was anyone’s guess.  But he was the only at the glass; Randall was several feet away at this point, out of view—he knew they had history in Hope.  At least, to some degree.  But while he caught Randall rubbing the stump he’d had ever since Hope as he talked about her, she paid him no heed.  History was apparently a one-sided interest._

_So why was she looking at him?_

* * *

Sunlight filtered through the hole that he had torn upwards in his flight.

She lay on the floor of the nest, her brood tending to her.  Through them, she assessed the damage, the tissues that had been torn and mangled by his claws, the things he had done to her that she had barely managed to fend off.  One of the lesser ones was obliging, a necessary sacrifice to patch the holes that her Love had torn into her.  Bones broke, blood flowed, and meat repurposed.  She would need time to heal, but having the materials was a start.

He hadn’t taken anything from her she couldn’t live without.  That included himself.

The speed with which his affections had turned to violence had surprised her.  The strength and ferocity had displayed was likewise something she had not appreciated—among them all, he might have been foremost.  Many of her children had come to her aid as he pinned her and rent her, and they had driven him off before he could do anything irreversible, but she was still injured.

She could still feel him, faintly.  He was running, not just from several of her brood who still pursued.  The men and machines he had counted as allies hunted him too.  Somewhere high above, maybe the Broken, Wayward One would be attracted by the violence, and he would join the hunt. 

It was possible that her Love would survive them all.  It was possible that he would not.  She had given him so much, and had eagerly accepted what he had offered.  They were supposed to make something great. 

Her brood lifted her, carrying her away from the hole.  Rubble and meat would be used to plug it, conceal it.  But she needed to be carried deep and safe.  To heal and to prepare.

She smiled.  Mister Right had run off, but that was of no moment.  He might come back to her, but not to seek forgiveness.  She could feel the doubt from him, that he should have kept mauling her, that she should not have run.  If he came back to do that, she would manage.  He could do many things, and she could do many, many things to him.

But at the moment, she didn’t _need_ him like she had ever since she first saw him.  She could be patient and wait to see what he was doing to do.  Her patience would pay off, it always did. 

She had been surprised at how strong, how great he had been.  He was great, she made him greater, and they were going to make great things together.  He was gone now, but she was not disappointed.  Something thick dripped between her legs, warm as he had been inside her.  She had given him a lot, and he had taken more in leaving.  But she had finally gotten something out of it.  She could feel it inside her, twisting and growing and changing.  Something great.

She curled up when her children set her down.  The hive engulfed her, protected her, kept her safe and warm while she waited.  Injured as she was, she would need to be careful about this, about safeguarding the future that she and Mister Right had made.

**Author's Note:**

> This ended up fairly extreme, even for me (although I skirted the issue by not going as detailed when those bits happened). I tried playing around with obtuse, inhuman points of view, especially from Greene--I had a hard time "visualizing" how I wanted her to act with this. I hope it was to your liking.


End file.
